


Whatsername

by moonstone1520



Series: One Little Word [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Dream Sex, F/M, Implied Adlock, Implied Molly/Tom, Memory Alteration, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: Sherlock keeps seeing a mysterious woman in his dreams.





	Whatsername

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr.
> 
> Inspired by the Green Day song.

_Thought I ran into you down on the street_

Sherlock clutched his heavy wool coat tighter to his body, ignoring the way the chill in the London air seeped through the thick material and into his bones. The fact that it was nearing a certain date he knew he should remember was irrelevant _{I’m forgetting something}_. He turned onto Baker Street from Euston… but why was he on Euston? His thoughts distracted, he bumped into the pretty woman—hard.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she exclaimed. He furrowed his brow. Did he know her? “I was just coming by to drop off those toes you needed. I managed to nick some extra today,” she said cheerfully. Her long auburn hair was wrapped in a high pony tail, the garish scarf { _but all of her clothes were garish, you liked garish on her (where did that thought come from?)}_ she wore was wrapped haphazardly around her neck, the fringe listing on the ground. She handed him a small cooler, still chatting away, oblivious to his complete and utter incomprehension of her entire person.

“Thank you,” he heard himself murmur. The woman smiled _{his heart clenched (WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME TODAY?)}_ at him, her entire being lighting up with the simple facial expression.

“You’re welcome.” She spared a glance at her watch. “Oh God, I’ve got to dash, I’m late for work!” She reached up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek _{the press of her lips to his skin sent bursts of flame down his neck}_ , grasping his free hand and giving it a squeeze. Sherlock surprised himself by sliding his hand up her arm and around her waist, pulling her body flush to him and pressing her lips to hers _{his heart pounded hard against his chest, the movement of their lips together sending heat throughout his body (but then it was always like that when he kissed her [but I’ve never **seen** this woman before!])_. He broke away when air became a necessity, smiling down at her _{one of his real smiles, not one of the fake ones he used to use all the time with her}_ and giving her waist a tug.

“I missed you,” he heard himself purr, as his nose nuzzled the hollow between her neck and shoulder. His ego surged at the contented sigh he heard her utter against his ear.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered conspiratorially. She bit his earlobe and pushed herself away from him at his aroused _{??}_ groan. She winked, as she backed away from him. “Happy Birthday, Sherlock” she grinned, turning and walking down the street towards the Tube.

***

_Then it turned out to only be a dream_

His eyes opened to the sterility of his bedroom, his sight resting on the periodic table that had hung on his wall since he moved in. He reached for the vestiges of his dream, but it was fading fast from his memory.

Except the woman.

She never faded from his memory.

***

He could never remember if she was a real person or simply someone that his subconscious had made up as an amalgamation of the women in his life. As much as he searched his mind, he had no recollection of the woman in his dreams, nor was she even remotely similar to any of the women in his life currently: his mother, Mary, Sally barely counted, and Irene only counted when she deigned to drop in for a hard and fast shag and a lashing—the sort of which depended on her mood. And yet… something about this particular piece of brain matter was nagging at him…

He shrugged off the scraps of the dream and went about his day.

But he did a double take when he thought he saw the woman in Borough Market on his way to the Watson’s abode.

***

“Seems that you disappeared without a trace,” he began. She laughed, a high tinkling laugh that prodded a door in his mind. A door he allowed to be defaced with cobwebs, and was locked down so tight he didn’t bother looking for the keys anymore.

Those were lost long ago.

“Did you ever marry… _{what’s his face?}_ your fiancé?” he struggled.

He never struggled.

The pretty woman laughed, but the tone was different. Sad. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sun, the ring he knew he should have caught at first glance _{but it wasn’t on her finger before!}_ glittering, nearly blinding him with its dazzle _{I would have done better (you **did** do better [ **SHUT UP!** ])}_.

“Tom? Yeah, I married him last year. We’re expecting our first now.” She stood and placed a hand on her swollen belly _{it wasn’t swollen before (it should be **your** child inside her, not his)}_ , grunting with the effort it took these days. He stared at her bulging midsection, then slid his gaze up to meet her eyes. The sparkle changed as tears welled up and fell down her cheeks.

Her smile never wavered.

He reached up a shaking hand to cup her cheek. Stepping into her space, he vaguely noticed that her belly was flat, her ring gone and she looked younger _{like when you first met her (I’ve never met her [she doesn’t exist])}._

“I remember your face, but I can’t recall your name,” he whispered. He leaned his forehead against hers. “Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I went away,” she said simply.

“I made a point to burn all the photographs,” he said wonderingly. “Why did I do that?”

She shrugged again, leaning into his hand, turning to press a kiss to his palm.

“I went away,” she repeated. “It was forever ago, anyways,” she added, leaning into him to crush her lips to his. She pulled him on top of her, and he continued shagging her into the mattress _{god I missed this}_ , his orgasm crashing over him as she clenched tightly around him. She screamed his name as he pounded into her, and he opened his mouth to shout hers—

He woke up, hard as a rock and her name on the tip of his tongue.

He never did remember it.

***

She would invade his dreams in odd intervals. Sometimes nights on end, sometimes not for months. But she always made an appearance, in what felt like memories. Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t remember ever meeting this women.

And Sherlock Holmes prided himself on his excellent memory.

But it didn’t explain how he knew what she tasted like _{strawberries}_ , knew what she smelled like _{lemons (to get rid of the smell from the morgue) and Clinque Happy (because it was a belated birthday present from him [where the **hell** did that come from?])}_ , nor how he knew what she sounded like when she came _{or what she felt like against his tongue, around his fingers, how her heat fit his cock so well}_.

When she didn’t appear in his dreams, he wondered how Whatsername has been.


End file.
